


Melody of Life

by Lola_Bear



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, First Kiss, M/M, Music, Poetic, Poetry, Prose Poem, Sex, Song Lyrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:27:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22864780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lola_Bear/pseuds/Lola_Bear
Summary: Jaskier knew the songs that were remembered the best were those that plucked the heart-strings.  Full of truth and warmth, these melodies lulled their listeners in like a freshly baked pie lures the hungry in from the cold.  For that reason he, the bard of such renown, knew the trick of dissecting a person’s character with his keen eye.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 3
Kudos: 51





	Melody of Life

**Author's Note:**

> I've watched the TV show and played a good portion of the 2nd Witcher game and I feel there's no clear point at which Jaskier and Geralt's relationship goes from platonic to romantic. So this story is meant to be the turning point and can be placed pretty much anywhere in their association.

Jaskier knew the songs that were remembered the best were those that plucked the heart-strings. Full of truth and warmth, these melodies lulled their listeners in like a freshly baked pie lures the hungry in from the cold. For that reason he, the bard of such renown, knew the trick of dissecting a person’s character with his keen eye. Just as a master chef would fillet a choice piece to reveal all its most succulent bits.

The man standing before him and Geralt was no choice cut. Rather he was more akin to the muck one would struggle to remove from a boot. His gap-toothed grimace and feckless countenance counted as some of his more charming qualities.

“Deed’s done?” the dimwit queried my friend.

“It is.” The White Wolf never wasted breath whenever possible. I suspect it was his attempt to avoid catching a fatal case of stupidity from those he was forced to interact with.

I’m not sure if the man scratched himself, ran fingers through his abundant chest hair, or just trying to pet his collection of lice, which I’m sure he had. After this display, he felt the need to point out. “I ain’t see no head.”

For his part, the witcher sighed. Brushing back a strand of hair from his face, I could see him calm the rising irritation. Beholding this man was a glorious sight. I could write poetry about his locks alone. The waves were like freshly fallen snow. Clean and pure to the eye, but cold and biting for the unwary.

“I can bring you the head if you wish.” After a pause, the slayer of monsters decided to add, “It smells like a shit house.”

Ah, light does dawn in the dreary reaches of what this fellow calls a mind. Wrinkling his nose, he shook his head, spittle flying. “Ya probably left that mess in me fields!” And there it is, the sound of a complainer finding the scent.

With a short chop, Geralt cut the man off. “It’s buried. Pay me.”

“It’ll probably foul the land and spoil me…” With a mad man’s persistence, the fool jabbered on. Briefly, I gave thought to a lyric or two to describe such a character.

_For his smell would feed a town,_

_But may be hard to swallow down,_

_And to see how he was dressed,_

_Is better to say the blind are blessed,_

Though amusing, I shook my head to dispel the misery it’d surely cause. Blinking, I realized my traveling companion was leading his horse Roach away. I was a might perplexed.

For days now we’d been on the road and this was the first chance we had to stay indoors. “Geralt!” I called. “Where are you going?”

“Somewhere else,” was his terse reply. I noticed a small pouch dangle from one hand. By my estimation, either the man had paid in fine coin or he shorted the witcher. Personally, I find it a poor habit to cheat someone who could easily tell the inner worth of a man, by using sharp implements.

“But the inn?” I must admit, even to myself, that my words shared many qualities of those uttered by the truly rich, and spoiled.

He in return gestured to a building off in the distance. “Be my guest.”

I turned in the direction he indicated and took stock of the building-shaped thing that loomed there. Its lines were slanted and bulged in a few places. Despite the dry weather, it looked wet and faintly ill. It was the equivalent of the man we had just finished dealing with.

“Oh.” I was proud of this monosyllabic response. For it incapsulated the entirety of the situation. It however did not warrant the snort from the retreating witcher.

Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath and regretted it immediately. Some of the odor from the erstwhile customer had lingered. Coughing, I sputtered, chasing after my friend, “Wait up!” 

Catching up with him, he spared me a glance having emptied what few coins he received into his own coin purse, dropping the tattered sack he had obtained to the ground.

“Shorted again?” I kept my voice low so that only the two of us were privy to the words.

Instead of answering direct, he looked past Roach’s back at a local villager woman. She in turn glared back and spat in our direction.

“Ah, I see. It’s one of those types of towns.” As a rule, rich and poor alike despised those that lay claim to the witcher title. Many felt their powers were abominations not fit for the shit pile they called home.

“Yes,” he growled. That one word contained so much hurt and despair, that not even a thousand songs could do justice to. It was hard edged like a finally honed razer. Yet another blade my friend bore.

We walked the road for the better part of the day. Geralt would occasionally pause to pick an herb or gather some moss, while I plucked away at my lute. When evening drew its gray cloak about us, camp was made.

With bed rolls unpacked and a fire dancing under our cooking pot, Geralt asked me something I never thought he’d say, “Can you play that melody you’ve been working on?”

Truth be told, I always have half a dozen tunes and ditties vying for my attention. However, I knew it was not one of these cheerful bits of fluff he was inquiring about. No, there was a song that haunted me ever since I joined him on the road. Early on it was only a musical number. Each note scorching the air, hanging long enough that you could swear you could see it. But somewhere along the line, words found their way in, like lost souls returning home.

Gathering my lute, I began to play the opening notes. I never went into singing this song since it took a toll out of me. It was a physical effort to prepare myself for what came next.

_With purpose I walk this road of mine,_

_With heart a heavy and sore,_

_I fear this journey and end of line,_

_Will keep me from that golden shore,_

_Away, away, where the children play,_

_To hold what I’m dreaming of,_

_Away, away, the others say,_

_To find my one true love,_

_The day is bright with promise anew,_

_I share it with those so near,_

_But when the friends grow too few,_

_My heart is filled with fear,_

_Away, away, where the children play,_

_To hold what I’m dreaming of,_

_Away, away, the others say,_

_To find my one true love,_

_Midday is clear with sun so high,_

_I can see what comes before,_

_But hated truths prevent the lie,_

_That I walk alone no more,_

_Away, away, where the children play,_

_To hold what I’m dreaming of,_

_Away, away, the others say,_

_To find my one true love,_

_Dusk arrives with a chilling breath,_

_And still I face it alone,_

_For up ahead may be my death_

_Perhaps a chance of home,_

_Away, away, where the children play,_

_To hold what I’m dreaming of,_

_Away, away, the others say,_

_To find my one true love,_

_Away, away, my head will lay,_

_To see that sky above._

We are silent as I play the final notes. The night itself holds its breath waiting for what comes next. I know I can’t reach my friend with words alone. I think that’s why I created the song, or to be more apt, why it was born from me.

Somewhere along the way, I had internalized Geralt. I let him resonate through me until it was ready to be given a voice. Having no place in this world to call home, despite how much he attempted to carve one out for himself, always left me longing to give him something in return.

I figured he had guessed that the song was about him. Hell, nearly everything I wrote featured him in some way, shape or form. He was my muse after all. So I yelped when a warm calloused hand caressed my cheek.

With wide eyes, I stared at his amber ones in confusion. When had he moved so close?

“You were crying.” The statement was simple, yet full of understanding. Did I touch him? This became irrelevant when he bent forward and captured my mouth with his own.

The taste of him was earthy. Opening my mouth allowed his tongue to whip out and stun mine. As I let my instrument fall from me, I reached up and took his head in my hands to steady myself and give vent to my passion.

Together we rolled upon our bed rolls as clothing found their way to be discarded. I hissed as he clamped on to my left nipple. Burying my fingers in his hair I was shocked to find it silky smooth. I was getting lost in the sensation as I let it cascade over my palms when his growl brought me back to the moment.

His hand found my sex and squeezed. To him, my cock was the hilt of a special kind of sword and he dare not let it go.

I cried out close to the edge of release. I was walking on a cliff and staring out at oblivion. Sensing my intent, he broke contact. As if not in my own body, I could hear the whimper I uttered echo about me. With eager hands I reached for him, but, using one palm, he held me down. I could not tell what he was grabbing with the other now that it wasn’t clenching my member.

“Turn over,” he rasped a command which I obeyed without question. The feel of a slippery finger found my anus and dove inside.

The finger expanded me with each thrust. Just as I caught the rhythm and sang out my moans, he’d change the pitch and add another digit.

By profession I’m a bard, but that night I was but a mere instrument to a true maestro. Again I neared the precipice when he departed from me once again. This time my cry was full of sorrow at the loss of his touch. But I should not have fallen into misery, for he joined us once again.

The heat of his length pierced me to the quick. With a grunt he introduced inch after inch of his cock inside me. The intimacy of this position left my soul bared wide. After what seemed like a small eternity, I finally felt the solid root of him crush against my backside.

I believe his intention was to go slow, but having been so close so many times made me wild. With reckless abandon, I pushed back into him.

Unable to resist my urging, he responded in kind. The slap of our bodies filled the air. I reveled in the feel of his testicles as they smacked against my bottom. And the sound of his guttural “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” brought me to nirvana. With one final “Fuck!” he and I exploded.

The throbbing of his dick coursed through me and echoed my own ejaculation. It was as if every ounce of him flowed through me and onto the bedding and my stomach.

Extricating from my ass, he fell with a heavy thump to my side. I leaned on my side to face him, the mess I had made becoming apparent.

His eyes glittered with mischief as he traced a finger through my cum and around my naval.

“What was that for?” Honestly, I had no complaints. I simply wanted to know what I did right so I could do it again.

When he stayed silent, I was worried I had offended him in some way. But he eventually gave a one shoulder shrug. “I just didn’t want that song to be about me.”

Sometimes the best songs are those that pluck the heart-strings of the listener. But the greatest songs? Those are the ones that can inspire us to action.


End file.
